Chapter 9 #3
“To answer your question, sugar,” Ray-Ray continues, “my little songbird had more enemies than a cat at a dog show. She wasn’t exactly winning Miss Congeniality backstage, if you catch my drift. She was always too ambitious for her own good.”
“Any enemies in particular you’d like to name?” I press, hoping he can provide actual useful information instead of loose musical interludes.
“Well, there’s that redheaded firecracker she was stealing recipes from. And that slick hotel fella she was—” He stops abruptly, eyes widening. “Well now, that’s interesting.”
“What’s interesting?” Charlie and I ask simultaneously as if we’re a part of some kind of supernatural chorus line.
“I just remembered something important about—”
Whatever revelation Ray-Ray was about to share is cut short by the amplified voice of Chuck Longnecker, who stands at the front of the room tapping a microphone with the authority of someone who’s used to being listened to and obeyed without question.
“Ladies and gentlemen, could I have your attention, please? If all competitors could gather, we’d like to begin our morning briefing.”
I’ll admit, morning feels like a wordplay on mourning.
Ray-Ray floats upward slightly, his form beginning to shimmer like heat waves off summer pavement.
“I’ll hunt down not just one killer but two!
Just you wait, pretty ladies. Ray-Ray’s on the case!
” He strikes one final pose, a classic Elvis point-and-wink combo that should probably be trademarked, before dissolving into another spray of stars that sparkle and fade like the world’s most spectacular exit strategy.
“Dramatic exit, much?” Charlie whispers as we make our way toward the gathering crowd.
“It is Vegas.”
Chuck Longnecker stands on a small platform, his professional smile firmly in place despite the strain visible around his eyes that suggests he’s had about as much sleep as I have, which is to say practically none.
His dark suit looks freshly pressed, not a wrinkle in sight as if chaos and double homicide are merely minor inconveniences in his meticulously ordered world where everything has a place and murder is just another item on his to-do list.
“Good morning, everyone,” he begins, his voice carrying the perfect blend of corporate warmth and condolence. “First, I want to acknowledge the tragedy that has touched our competition. The entire Bellanova family is deeply grieved by the loss of one of our comrades in culinary arms.”
His pause for effect is so perfectly timed it feels rehearsed, which it probably was, complete with coaching from the hotel’s PR team and perhaps a teleprompter hidden somewhere in the room.
“However, as they say in show business, the show must go on.” He straightens with his shoulders squaring.
“Today, we invite each of you to submit your signature introductory dishes at your own pace. Take as much time as you need to create something truly spectacular that won’t be overshadowed by the unfortunate recent deaths. ”
He paces across the platform, and his movements are as controlled as his speech.
“The rest of the competition will proceed as planned, with seminars and events throughout the week, leading up to our grand finale on Saturday night when we’ll crown our winners and hopefully avoid any additional casualties. ”
Chuck pauses dramatically, glancing to his right where two staff members stand near a curtained wall. “But before you return to your kitchens, the Bellanova would like to offer a token of our appreciation for your continued participation during these difficult circumstances.”
He nods to the staff, who pull on long cords, revealing what was hidden behind the curtain—a magnificent buffet spanning the entire wall, laden with dishes that span every cuisine imaginable.
The presentation is nothing short of spectacular, with ice sculptures, elaborate fruit carvings, and tiered displays of pastries that make my professional baker’s heart skip a beat.
“Please, enjoy this feast prepared by the executive chefs of the Bellanova,” Chuck announces with a grand gesture.
“Consider it fuel for your creative fires. After you’ve satisfied your appetites, I encourage you to return to your stations where you’ll find them fully stocked and ready for your artistic expressions to take form. ”
His smile broadens into something that almost reaches his eyes. “Best of luck to all of you. May your whisks be quick and your ovens true.”
Charlie nods. “And your competitors stay alive long enough to finish the competition,” she whispers my way.
Amen to that.
The crowd breaks into applause before surging toward the buffet like a tidal wave of hungry humans.
“I need sustenance, STAT,” Charlie declares, already moving with the crowd. “Creating culinary masterpieces requires at least three plates of free food as a foundation, and possibly a fourth for good measure.”
“Save me some of those mini quiches,” I call after her, but she’s already disappeared into the throng of competitors jockeying for position at the carving station like it’s Black Friday at a high-end department store.
I crane my neck and spot Sherry Smoot still standing apart from the crowd. She hasn’t moved toward the buffet; instead, she’s hugging herself tightly and her posture suggests she’s carrying a weight too heavy for her shoulders alone and contemplating either flight or violence.
“Sorry,” I murmur to my rumbling tummy, “but our meal will have to wait. It’s time to interrogate a suspect.”
Some things can’t be postponed—like death, taxes, and murder investigations where the prime suspect is standing alone looking suspiciously vulnerable.
After all, justice, unlike the buffet table, won’t wait for seconds.